America the Dead (11 page)

Nate fired up the big RV and looked over at me.

I nodded and said, “Strap yourselves in, its gonna be a bumpy ride.”

13

(TWO WEEKS AGO)

Major Thorton was bored. They had been on the road for several days and had passed several small towns. None of the towns had been inhabited and Thorton was itching for some kind of action. Any kind of action.

The convoy had been following Route 6 out of California and had made their way to Ely, Nevada. There they picked up Route 50, which according to the maps, should take them all the way across the country. But they had to make some jogs through some more inhabited country, so Thorton was confident something would happen soon.

There had been the occasional dead walker, but the convoy chose to ignore the minor threat rather than stop moving. They had been making pretty good progress, all things considered. With most of the world dead, the road crews were not out to clear the debris from the roads that accumulated every spring from thawing hills and falling rocks. Several times the convoy would stop while men cleared the way.

The last action the Major saw was during one of the stops, a lone zombie was working its way up the road and was nearly on the men before they spotted it. In the scramble to get away, the zombie lumbered on, focused on one lone trooper who raised his weapon to fire, only to have it knocked away by Thorton.

“Don’t waste ammo, dumbass,” Thorton said, waiting for the zombie to get closer before he stepped up and shoved his boot in its chest. The zombie flew backwards, over the roadside and down the mountain. Before it was dashed on the rocks below, the tumble down the terrain literally knocked the zombie to pieces.

The Major had glared at his men. “Use your brains. It’s the only thing that separates you from them.”

That was four days ago. They had crossed most of Nevada and were coming up on the town of Beaver. It was thought that they might try the interstate and see how things were before continuing on side roads. Riding in from the west, Major Thorton could see the I-15 interstate as it loomed above him and the outskirts of the small town. The sign read a population of over two thousand, but in surveying the quiet streets, Thorton had his doubts.

He signaled his driver to slow down, to take a look at things. The town didn’t seem too much the worse for wear, but Thorton knew that any town close to an interstate had a high likelihood of infection. They followed West Center street into the town and there was some evidence of problems. There was a car that had crashed into a tree and the inside was covered in old blood.

As they travelled further into the town, there were some homes that had dirty rags hanging from the mailboxes, reminders of the futility of hoping that the disease could be contained and controlled. As they passed by, Thorton began to get a familiar feeling between his shoulder blades, a feeling that told him something was wrong about this setup.

They turned up North Main Street and Thorton signaled a stop. He had seen the Sheriff’s office and wondered if there were any weapons to be recovered. Stepping out into the street, he adjusted his belt and signaled to the truck behind him that he wanted three men to accompany him. Lt. Tamikara got out of his vehicle and two other men came at his beckoning.

Major Thorton walked over to the three men. “Let’s take a look at the police station, see if there is anything worth taking.” Thorton looked down the streets and back at Tamikara, who was looking at him. The other two men headed for the police station.

“Sir?” asked Tamikara.

“What is it?”

“Do you feel anything strange about this place?”

Thorton looked around. “Yeah, I do. Can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something seriously wrong here.”

“I agree. Do we need to stay?” Tamikara, normally emotionless, actually seemed nervous. Thorton was somewhat amazed.

“No. Something is telling me to get the hell out of here,” said the Major.

The two men who went to the police station walked out, each holding a shotgun and what looked like some ammo. Neither was talking and they both looked shaken.

“What’s up with you two?” snapped Tamikara, his own nervousness showing.

The first private spoke up. “Sir, you better go look for yourself.”

Morbidly curious, Major Thorton walked over to the station and cautiously peered in. He wasn’t scared, knowing he was more than a match for any dead thing and most, if not all, live things. But the unknown was a different factor and his warning bells were screaming at him right now.

He looked inside and didn’t see anything seriously out of order. There were papers on the floor and an overturned chair, but nothing else. He looked down the dark hallway and could see cell doors at the end of the hall. Moving cautiously, he slowly followed the hall and stood at the end, fully taking in the grim scene before him. In the cells were about fifty people, all huddled together. Men, women, children, all tucked into little positions. Dead babies were held by their dead mothers and dead fathers wrapped their protective arms around their dead children. Curiously, all the bodies were as far away from the bars as possible. Thorton was confused about that until he looked down and saw what had happened. Around the cages were hundreds of footprints, dark and foreboding. Zombies had trapped these people here and paced outside the bars until the trapped people died from hunger and thirst.

Ken backed away, leaving that hellish scene of torment and hopelessness. He walked back down the hall, more intent than ever to get away. He had seen some nasty things, but this was up there with the best.

Walking out of the building, he saw many faces turned to look at him. He waved his hand dismissively, then shouted for everyone to mount up. When the trucks were rolling again, he told his driver to head north. The entrance to the interstate was up that way and he wanted to get out of this town.

As they headed up Main Street, a though kept nagging at Thorton. What happened to the rest of the town? If those fifty people were the last of the living, this place was a couple grand zombies short of an explanation. It was possible that the remainder of the town had melted away into the countryside, but there should have been something. It was just strange and kept getting stranger.

The convoy passed the last of the businesses and started the slow curve to get to the highway. On the left was Beaver Valley Hospital and even from a distance of two hundred meters, Thorton could tell it had been hard hit. Burn marks above blown out windows told the story of a fire out of control, while crashed vehicles told the tale of people rushing with their sick loved ones to the emergency room before they knew what horrors they were transporting.

As they curved around the building, Major Thorton looked hard at the hospital. Sure enough, there was movement. About forty small shapes detached themselves from the shadows of the building and headed out across the open field which separated the hospital from the vehicles. They were moving fast, much faster than they should have been.

“Shit. Kids, coming up on our left.” Thorton was about to radio to the vehicles behind him when something on his right caught his attention. A man and a woman were racing out from a house on side street, carrying what looked like backpacks. They were waving their arms and shouting, hoping to get a ride. Thorton looked over at the approaching horde and back at the two, mentally calculating distance and time and who might reach them first.

He reached a decision. “Speed up.” He turned and pulled a standard AR-15 from the rack and watched the other two vehicles speed up as well, leaving the couple racing for their lives ahead of a pack of hungry zombie kids.

“Stop here,” he ordered, getting out of the vehicle and stepping to the side. He sighted his rifle and fired once, hitting the running man in the leg. The bullet smashed into the man’s thigh, flipping him over and leaving him on the ground. His woman screamed and ran back to him, pulling on him and trying to get him to stand up to run again. The zombie children raced closer, some of them leering in anticipation.

Thorton fired again, striking the woman just above her left knee. She and her husband fell to the ground, unable to run any more. Major Thorton lowered his rifle and watched with interest as the zombies closed the distance on the struggling pair. One hundred yards, then seventy five, then fifty.

At thirty yards, the man proved he was down but still a fighter. He pulled a gun and giving his woman a final kiss, placed the gun against her head and pulled the trigger, surprising the hell out of the Major. Still full of fight, the man fired a dozen shots at the man who shot him, causing Thorton to duck for cover and scramble back into his vehicle as bullets whipped past him.

As the zombies came within reach, the man fired his last shot into his own mouth, blowing the back of his head off and falling lifeless at the feet of the zombies who quickly tore him and his wife apart, ravenous for fresh meat.

Thorton threw himself into his seat as his driver pulled away, sullen that his fun hadn’t been so much fun and his men saw him scramble for cover from a man who proved to be game to the end.

In the second vehicle, Captain Tamikara smiled to himself as they continued driving to Interstate 15.

The interstate seemed to be a good bet as they pulled onto the main road. There were cars here and there, but nothing like the jams that clogged the streets around most cities and towns. The cars that were there were off to the side and abandoned, indicating that they had simply run out of gas. Debris and personal items were scattered around and Thorton kept an eye out for anything that might be useful. The cars they didn’t even bother checking for leftover gas.

On the right of the convoy was Fishlake Forest and Thorton briefly thought about camping there for the night, figuring the trees would serve as a decent natural barrier, but that would require him to actually discomfort himself, which Thorton thoroughly believed beneath his dignity. The fact that his dignity had taken a serious blow just moments before was already forgotten.

Travel went fairly swiftly and Thorton and his men started to get the notion that they would be able to take the highways most of the way across the country, saving a lot of time and trouble. The simple truth that the convoy had been on the road for a week and had not experienced any serious threats should have been a warning, but such was the arrogance of the group that they believed themselves to be possessing better luck than most.

The joy ride came to an end after they crossed into Colorado on I-70 and came near Grand Junction. The gridlock became much worse and Thorton could see many cars that showed signs of violence. Two accidents had snarled the majority of the cars and the steep embankment showed signs of cars that had tried to get off the highway and go around the mess. Several were rolled over and upside down at the bottom. More than a few cars had active zombies in them, clawing at the windows and struggling in their seatbelts. Whole families had been turned and it was weird to see a family of four twisting in their seats, acting for all the world like they had decided to take a zombie holiday, wound up in traffic and now needed to use the bathroom.

Thorton radioed back to the second truck. “Send two men up to see if we can get around this.” He was not happy, but he was practical. The road curved around a hill and Thorton wanted to see if the logjam was just here or if it extended beyond.

The two men moved forward and with a nervous glance back at the safety of the trucks, weaved their way into traffic. The cars were close together, with barely enough room to walk through. The panic had caused the motorists to drive four abreast on a three-lane road, using up most of the available room. The soldiers walked quickly past the occupied cars, fingernails claw at windows while dead faces pressed themselves against the glass, snapping at the food just out of reach.

As the men kept moving, they noticed that some of the vehicle’s occupants were dead, but not zombies. They were usually lying together, huddled into little balls. Bloody handprints covered the windows and it was not difficult to figure out that these families had been trapped in their vehicles, not able to get out and slowly dehydrated while the dead moaned and clawed at the windows. What sort of desperate last hours that must have been, slowly dying while ghouls leered and slavered for flesh just inches away? What kind of feeling of failure did parents feel when they helplessly watched their children die, crying for relief?

The men kept moving and they reached a point where the attacks on the occupants had become much more vicious, cars with broken glass and blood splattered everywhere. Body parts that had been ripped off were scattered about, a large number of them fingers and hands. Many cars had been abandoned as people ran from the attacks, further jamming the traffic. Here hands grasped the air as the men approached and hungry eyes followed their every move.

Looking for an alternative route, the men looked to the side of the road, but one glance over the side rail tossed that notion. The land dropped quickly and at the bottom of the hill was a crowd of around fifty zombies. They were simply milling about, drawn to the scent of death from the road, but when they saw the men looking down at them, they groaned their hunger and tried to scramble up the hill, but it was too steep.

One of the men realized that the zombies stuck in the cars couldn’t reach very far. Jumping up onto a hood, the soldier scrambled over the car, avoiding the rotting hands that grabbed at him as he passed. The other soldier realized he was being left behind and recognizing the value of the idea, quickly jumped up on another vehicle and proceeded to move forward.